Snapshots
by Willdew
Summary: Think "Return To Spider-Skull Island" post season 4. The boys are slightly more mature about things this time around. (Brock x Rusty) Slash.


**Disclaimer:**

I am not the true copyright holder of the characters depicted below. No profit made from this, none intended.

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><p><strong>Author's Notes: <strong>

Originally posted Jan 18th, 2010 in response to a writing challenge on LiveJournal. Takes place after Season 4.

As a piece, it's pretty tongue-in-cheek and heavily references the events of _Return to Spider-Skull Island, _so if you enjoyed the lighthearted manner in which Jackson Publick and Doc Hammer poked fun at Brock and ol' Rust's relationship in that episode, then chances are you will probably survive reading this.

Probably.

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><p><span><strong>Snapshots from a (Second) Male Pregnancy<strong>

_**The**** Dreaded Conversation:**_

"It's not that I'm not happy, just, ah, a little confused about how it happened, 'cause as far as I know we never... ah, did we?"

"NO! God, no! The genetic transfer must've occurred when I was covered in that crap the Monarch's stupid henchmen spilled all over the old missile silo and you helped me up. By the way, that place should be declared off-limits until I find a reason to stick Hank in a Hazmat suit and go in there with a mop; I think we can now safely say it was something left over from one of my dad's experiments with fertility drugs."

"Why the hell would there be containers of _that_ in the missile silo?"

"You're asking me? My dad left his garbage all over the place before he went and _croaked._ Most of it isn't even here but scattered across the globe. But now that you mention it, I think I remember something about how he wanted to dust a group of subjects penned up somewhere like you would a corn crop? I don't pretend to understand half the shit my dad did for 'the good of the American people,' I really don't. Still," Venture added, "I guess it's a good thing I kicked the Johnson family out before all this shit went down. I'm still dealing with Orpheus' lawsuit over the defense system going berserk on him for mowing the lawn. The last thing I need is a group of outraged Mormons blaming me for-actually, you think they would pay me for the stuff? I mean, those people _like_ having fourty extra kids at a time, don't they?"

"Uh, they may not be so keen on some 'a the side effects, Doc. For instance, this chemical must 'a been pretty potent, considering... well... I mean... I can see how it could maybe grow its own umbilical cord or whatever but how's it even gonna come out? Unless you've also got, ah. Do you?"

"Why, yes, Brock, I'm a hermaphrodite now. The fact that I'm sitting here contemplating whether or not to remove the thing immediately or wait until I'm so far gone that I'll have to get a certain midget to perform a C-section in order to avoid a four-figure hospital bill has _nothing_ to do with the fact that I am, newly-formed uterus aside, still 100% male."

"Couldn't ya just stick it in one of the incubators like you did with the boys?"

"All blown up during your little 'vacation.' So in a way, not only have you knocked me up, but now I have to decide whether or not to let the little monster gestate until it's old enough to build itself robotic limbs and come after me and killing it, and it's all thanks to you."

"I don't think our kid is gonna behave like your brother, Doc."

"Oh, really."

"I mean, the boys aren't exactly what I'd call _violent..."_

"Oh my God. The boys. What are we going to tell them? What if they run away again? What if they end up-" The Doctor clutched at his chest. "Brock, I'm seeing spots. Help me to the couch."

Brock rolled his eyes. The Doc could be such a drama queen. The problem was, he pulled this shit so often that it was hard to tell when he was faking. Sometimes, it seemed like the Doc might not even know whether or not he was faking.

_**Telling the Kids:**_

"So are you and dad, like, uhm. So I guess we're a real family now?"

"Look, boys, we were always a real family. And I promise we won't love the new baby any more than you two."

"Aw, c'mon." Hank rolled his eyes. "We know _that._ It's just kinda weird, I mean,"

"-having it this late," Dean continued, seriously. "Me and Hank have been talking about it, and with all of pop's medical conditions, you have to be prepared for the possibility that something might go wrong."

"You mean, besides the fact that I'm a dude and your dad's a dude and doesn't really have any lady parts to speak of-"

"He's already given birth once before," Dean continued, as if men ending up pregnant were an everyday occurrence. "And that process was terribly traumatic. I mean, couldn't the two of you just altered the formula from our old 'birthday presents' or adopted?"

"Yeah. We coulda had a little Deanette or something."

"Or a little Henrietta."

"Pfft, nuh uh. A girl me would still be too macho. It'd have to be a girl you."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Anyway. What we're saying is that this old-fashioned method, while _nostalgic-"_

Brock could barely believe his ears. Only in this family. "Boys, ah, be as it may, this wasn't exactly planned..."

"So it was a _love child,"_

"Hank, I'm not even sure that means what you think it means."

Dean cleared his throat dramatically, pointing his finger in the air in a way that made him look more like his dad than ever. "What my dear brother is trying to infer is that you and our pop were... consensually affectionate, in the manner of grown-ups, and failed to utilize proper protection?"

"Oh, I s—wait, NO! It was a weird chemical compound that did this! In no way did your dad and I do the na-" he caught the confused expressions on the boy's faces, "-er, make... ah... have sex," he finished lamely. "What can I say to make you boys understand that?"

Hank and Dean both exchanged a skeptical look. "...a lotta stuff happened after you left, Brock."

"We're not just little kids anymore."

"We know about the birds and the bees."

"And about birds and birds, too."

"And birds and eggs."

"And birds and—what? Oh, right. Poor Uncle Hatred." Dean shook his head.

"Boys! Please! It's really not what you—your father and I still like women. We really do. We _prefer_ women and on toppa that we are not attracted to one another _at all."_

Hank and Dean shared another look of collusion. "Riiight." Hank said patronizingly. "And some guys like both ladies _and_ dudes. And that's okay too. Isn't that right, Dean?"

"It is? Since whe—"

"I said, _isn't that right, Dean?"_

"Uhm, is this a tri—I mean, yes. We would not think less of you either way! If you were. Which you aren't. But if you ever changed your mind, which you won't, but if for some reason, say we were in an alternate universe or something and it was a different _you_ and a different _pop,_ then the different me and the different Hank would still... uhm..." Dean trailed off awkwardly. The younger twin was beet red by this point—his face practically matched his hair.

"Well, thanks, boys. I really feel, uh. Like we got accomplished here today. Now if you excuse me, I gotta go... be... somewhere that isn't here. 'Cause otherwise, I might do somethin' I really regret."

"Oh—okay, Brock. Have a nice... time."

"Yeah. And, uh, congratulations?"

Brock grunted.

_**Violent Hormone-Induced Moodswings:**_

Brock jumped out of the helicopter, landed on the agent that had just double-crossed him, and twisted his neck all the way around until he heard a satisfying snap. He then stole the guy's parachute, strapped it on, and pulled the rip cord.

When he landed, he discarded the chute and went for his knife.

The target was waiting for him. Bad move. The guy shoulda ran while he still had the chance. "Hey, buddy, you like pies?"

"Vy no, I detest zem!"

"Well, too bad, 'cuz I am gonna make _mince meat_ outta you!" Seeing his advantage, Brock leapt, when-his watch beeped.

Brock dodged out of the way of his opponent's counter-strike, and tapped the 'answer' button before going in for another stab. "Kinda busy here, Doc."

"So? I wouldn't have called you if it wasn't important."

"Fine. Go ahead then."

"Where's the peanut butter?"

"For the love a'-are you kidding me?"

"Obviously you've never been pregnant. I have a _craving,_ Brock. I wouldn't expect a man like you to understand."

"Fine. Whatever. Didja check the back of the fridge? 'Cuz that's where it is."

"What? No it isn't."

"Look again, Doc. It should be behind the ketchup, mustard and pickles."

"But the ketchup and mustard are old."

The target halted abruptly, obviously frustrated that his opponent wasn't giving him his full attention. "Vat is zis? If you are not going to take zis zeriously-"

One swift cut and the target was on his knees, blood rupturing from a major vein in his throat. Brock turned his back on the guy. "I know, but last night was hamburger night, remember? So all that stuff's been moved to the front of the fridge."

Within the borders set by the communicator watch, the Doc rolled his eyes. "Well, that's just stupid."

The target staggered to his knees and burbled, "Samsonnnn!"

Brock stuck out his arm and clocked the guy in the chin, not bothering to check if he even went down. (He did.) To the watch, "you don't like it, _you_ make dinner from now on."

"Well, there's no need to be snippy about it."

The target began crawling towards Brock, still spurting blood everywhere. Man, some guys just didn't know when to quit! It was starting to look like he would have to make good on that mince meat deal. In the meantime, Brock landed a quick kick to the guy's face.

"Doc, I'm—I'm on a mission. I gotta go."

"Oh, excuse me, James Blond. I'll let you get back to your big important spy work. I have a lot of pretty important stuff to do myself, you know."

"Yeah. Sure you do."

"What, you don't believe me?"

"No, I just don't care. Goodbye, Doc."

Brock squatted behind a handy chunk of ice, and motioned for his fellow S.P.H.I.N.X. members to follow suit. "Now, here's the plan. Me an' Shore Leave are gonna,"

His watch beeped.

"Brooock?"

Brock's team members covered their mouths, snickering or looking away, trying not to laugh.

"Oh my God, what?"

"Can you pick up some ice cream on the way home?"

"We have ice cream."

"No, what we have is that non-dairy low-fat sugar-free crap Dean keeps on insisting on buying. I need the real stuff. _Please."_

"I... look, I don't think I'm gonna have time before I get home tonight. Can't you just get one of the boys ta do it?"

_"You don't love me!"_

_Now_ some of the guys were really laughing. Or looking genuinely concerned (which was worse.)

"What the—Doc, what the hell?"

"Admit it! You hate me! You've just stayed all these years for the kids. And once they're all grown up, you're going to abandon me just like everyone else!"

"Doc, I am not alone right now. All a' my team can hear-"

"So what? Let them! It's not like everyone doesn't already know. Who cares about stupid old Rusty Venture, he's just a joke and a has-been, never mind the fact that he's _carrying your-"_

Brock put the watch on mute and gave the group a simmering glare. The Doc didn't seem to notice from the look of things-he was still ranting away on his end. "I, ah, need to take ten, everybody." In a walking crouch, he retreated to a distance some ways away from the others, and took the watch off mute. "Look. I'm sorry, I'm gonna be home real late tonight, but you know what, you do me and the baby a favour and calm down and I'll bring you back a buncha fresh bodies, all right?"

Great, now the Doc was sniffling. "You mean dead people?"

Brock clapped a hand over his eyes. Some people complained about getting their baby mamas _pickles_ to go with their ice-cream. "Yeah, Doc. Lots and lotsa dead people, just for you."

The Doc seemed to be perked up by this, the tone of his voice changing from morose to slightly greedy. "How _many_ dead people?"

Brock rolled his eyes. "I dunno, Doc, how many do ya need for whatever it is you're plannin' to do?"

"Two or three dozen should do the trick."

"Okay, fine. Thirty-six dead guys, comin' up."

"Oh, and Brock?"

"Yeah."

"If it's not too much trouble, can you put them on ice or something so they don't go off? It's just that I'm used to them being _here_ already, but what with the travel time from... well, wherever you are..."

Brock looked around the Alaskan tundra, putting up his arm to conceal the communicator from a fresh gust of wind-borne hail. "You know, I don't think that's gonna be a problem." He hung up and shuffled back over to his team. This was going to be a challenging mission and they couldn't afford any more distractions. It was time to psych 'em up.

"All right, men, here's the deal. We-"

The communicator went off, cutting Brock's pre-game pep-talk mid-stream.

Christ, this _had_ to stop happening! Ignoring the knowing looks from his coworkers, Brock spoke softly but firmly into the speaker on his watch. "Look, Doc, I am literally _in the middle_ of a major sting operation. I'm talkin' like, ten of us versus about a hundred E.C.'s."

"What, so they're aliens? Why can't they just _phone home_ and fuck off already? Why the hell do they need S.P.H.I.N.X. to go in and beat them up if all they want is to glow at people and get little boys to feed them Skittles?"

"Enemy combatants, Doc. I've heard you use the phrase yourself, so don't pretend you don't know what it means."

"Well, can't someone else do it?"

"...what?"

"I mean, do they really need you there? I should think I need you more right now. Besides, it's not like a gigantic top-secret-but-totally-visible-from-Google-Maps base is going to go anywhere anytime soon."

"Doc, did you put a tracer on me?"

"...noooo. What gave you that idea? Anyway, this entire renegade spy thing is... well, it's been done, hasn't it? Besides, _I_ need you with me so that _I_ can leave the compound without fearing for my life. We get into enough crazy shit on our own, don't we? So what the hell are you hanging out with those losers for?"

"These _'losers'_ as you call them have been the ones actually keeping you and the boys safe for the past ten months."

"Yes, because squatting on my property while allowing us to be terrorized, tortured, kidnapped, stripped naked, sedated-"

"Look, I gotta go. Can we pick this up when I get home?"

"But it's a freaking suicide mission! I am looking at at least five hundred slightly radioactive bad-guy bio-signatures, and you're lying about how big that team is; there are only _four_ of you."

"I thought you said you didn't put a trace on me."

"...I, uh, well, technically it's a function of the watch-"

"One that you will show me how to _turn off_ so that future missions are not compromised, or it's staying off next time. Are we clear?"

"Oh, right. So I get to sit here and worry while you're out having the time of your life. _That_ seems fair."

"Doc-"

"Fine! I hope you get blown to bits." The transmission winked out.

There were a few titters from the rest of the men. Brock looked up, "okay, _what_? Anyone got anythin' to say, they better do it right now."

Mile High was making the 'whipped' hand motion. Shore Leave provided sound effects.

**_Giving Things Up:_**

"Brock, I need you to come upstairs."

Brock laid his head down on the pillow. He looked guiltily from the pissed-off looking broad he'd picked up on his last trip into town to the communicator watch perched on his night-stand. "It's just my boss. He's a little Howard Hughes,"

"Who?"

Oh, man. High school girls. Seriously. "Ya know that episode of the Simpsons where Mr. Burns starts a casino and suddenly he's wearin' Kleenex boxes on his feet and tries ta get Smithers to go into a little model airplane he built?"

"But this place isn't a casino."

Why did the young, hot ones have to be so dumb? It wasn't this way with older chicks. By around thirty or so it always evened out. Maybe unattractive broads just had to start learning shit faster because guys weren't falling over themselves to do everything for 'em in hopes of getting laid.

Britney (she claimed that was her real name) giggled. "Well, hurry back." She arched her spine and grabbed a fistful of eighteen-year-old breast, thumbing one perfect rosy pink nipple suggestively. "You want me to stay _in the mood,_ don't you?"

Oh, hell yes. Brock pulled her in for a kiss, which turned into her sitting in his lap, and she was so fucking _fit,_ and squirming her way out of her panties-

"Broocck? You there?" And then, darkly, "or are you with one of your _hussies?"_

"What the hell?" Britney rolled back onto the bed and brought the watch to her face. "Excuse me, grandpa, but I am _not-"_

"Good lord, how old _are_ you? No, wait, on second thought, I don't want to know. That way if the courts get involved I can legitimately say I knew nothing about it. Brock, this really won't take half a minute. _Please_ come upstairs." The transmission winked out.

Grumbling, Brock made his way up the stairs clad only in a pair of boxers.

"Okay, so what the hell is so fucking important that you had to bother me _on my night off?_ When I have _company?"_

"Here, just... take these."

"What, your diet pills?"

Rusty declined to comment. "Also, check the bathroom cabinet to make sure I don't have any more stashed away. I think there are a few dozen hidden in old prescription bottles pretending to be penicillin or thorazine."

"And you couldn't throw this stuff away yourself because..."

"I'm weak, all right? 'No withdrawal symptoms' my ass. But it's bad for the baby. So." There was an awkward pause.

"And what's gonna stop you from buyin' more or even synthesizing some?"

"Plain ol' willpower, I suppose. And you, I hope. So go on, get back to little Miss Sweet Sixteen before Hank or Dean beat you to finding out whether she's got a date for the prom."

"She's eighteen, Doc."

"Oh, really? Well, if she's not a minor then I'm the Queen of Spain. Goodnight."

The Doc was such a weird guy. Even after two decades of rooming in the same house, the man still managed to surprise Brock with how single-minded and obtuse he could sometimes be. It was like a weird sort of innocence borne of never having been innocent, and then grasping onto whatever hokey social standards or sense of structure floating about during his horrific childhood that he could. He would do stuff that was wrong—legally, morally, spiritually unethical in every way, and wouldn't see it as being a problem. But there were all these weird Leave-It-To-Beaver stereotypes and catch phrases that he believed in like he was the high priest of his own 1950's TV-dad religion and Brock and the boys were his acolytes or something. Mentally, Brock composed a list of Rusty's Commandments, such as they were:

1)Thou Shalt wear Polyester and shun all Wrinkles;  
>2)Thou Shalt take speed and call them 'diet pills';<br>3)Father Knoweth Best;  
>4)A Super-scientist is not an Evil Scientist, yea, even should they buildeth death rays and killer robots with which to slayeth their many foes, such creations shalt be named something else, and this will make them Good and not Evil;<br>5)Science is the One and Only religion, through which all Supernatural Phenomena may one day be explained.

And now, of course:

6)Thou Shalt Not do anything Bad For The Baby.

The Swede supposed it was good, in a way. He could only imagine what the Doc might've been like if he actually _tried_ to be a bad person.

Brock chucked the bottle of pills in the corner of his room and got back on top of Britney. He'd check the bathroom cabinet later.

_**Listening To Your Physician:**_

"Okay, sho do you want the good news or the bad news?" Billy lisped enthusiastically, tapping the rod from the ultrasound machine against the flat of his hand.

"I'm lying here with conductive gel on my stomach, obviously I'm here to learn what's been going on in the World Series," Doctor Venture snapped peevishly.

"Oh, really? Well, in that case-"

"He's bein' sarcastic, Billy. Ol' T.S. here loathes organized sports just as much as the next former Dungeons & Dragons fanatic. Except for when there's ladies, but then he's not exactly keepin' score, if you know what I mean?"

"Oh, hah hah. That's right; make fun of the guy with ten inches of steel up his butt by bringing up his sordid past involving many hot, sweaty nights filled with tabletop gaming. As if this weren't embarrassing enough."

"Well, I don't know quite how to say this, but the guy with ten inches of steel up his butt appears to have rolled himself a pair of twins."

"What?"

"Twin girls, actually. Kind of genetically improbable, given that both of the genetic donors were male. Perhaps it is a side-effect of the drug to which you were both exposed. I am uncertain as I have never seen a case like this before. However, I suggest you invest in a lot of pink furniture."

Rusty let his head fall back on the operating table. "Aw, hell." He'd been starting to see this new baby as a second chance to raise a super-scientist who would restore the family name, now that he'd had his test-run with both Hank and Dean. But he didn't know the first thing about girls. The prospect terrified him. You couldn't raise _girl adventurers,_ could you? "I don't suppose there's something I could take to make them develop boy parts and not be so useless?"

Horrified gasps filled the room, but Brock just clapped a hand to his forehead like he saw this one coming.

"Oh, don't act so politically correct—what the hell am I supposed to do with girls? They just absorb all your cash and go off and get married. I can't even train them in the family business, their female minds wouldn't be able to handle the strenuous rigors of super-science!"

"Pop, you know that isn't strictly true," Dean said tentatively. Up until now, the boys had been pretty quiet. "Dr. Quymn, for instance-"

"What, so I'm going to raise my kids to go off into the jungle and try to find _flowers_ that _cure cancer?_ Come _on,_ what's the use in that?"

"Uh, cancer is pretty serious," Hank said bluntly, while Dean began to stammer ineffectively about an article he'd read recently regarding something called 'the women's lib movement' which seemed fairly improbable, but was starting to gain steam.

"Oh. My. God. I thought as ex-TV stars we were living in the past. And what a great opportunity, to perform a sacred trust for someone I greatly admired as a child. But I always forget-my hero is an ass."

"You've said that before, Billy."

"AIDS kills a whole lot of people every year," Hank continued stubbornly. "Like, lots and lots. In Africa and stuff."

Brock looked like he was about to hit something. "Boys, not now!"

"Billy, you know it's just how he is. He doesn't really _mean_ anythin' by it-"

"Yes, but now he's an even bigger ass. I can't believe I agreed to be his obstetrician! You, Doctor Venture, are a sexist prick."

"Big words from someone who's never even seen a grown woman naked."

"Oh, that is it! I wash my hands of you. You can just find someone else to help you through this, because I quit. Officially. Good day, Doctor Venture."

"Billy, don't be like that." White flashed his old college buddy an embarrassed grimace. "You just sit tight, Rust. I'll go an' talk some sense inta him."

"What? What the hell did I say?"

"Uh, Doc... just... don't worry about it. We'll figure somethin' out. And you two. _Out._ We need... we need a minute here."

The boys slumped out of the lab under protest.

"Girls, Brock. This has to be a nightmare. Or punishment for something we've done."

"I dunno, Doc. If I believed in karma, I'd say we were gettin' off pretty easy. Besides, Dean is pretty girly already, so we could always... get him to help out."

"The learning beds aren't even _programmed_ to educate females. My father in all his wisdom never planned for that contingency."

"Well, the material was gettin' a little outta date, you gotta admit."

"It was good enough for me, that means it was good enough for the boys."

"Yeah, about that-"

"I'll have to draw up a whole new curriculum unless we want them to behave inappropriately. Women belong in the _domestic sphere,_ Brock. What am I supposed to do, read the entire contents of the _Joy of Cooking_ and _Miss Manners_ aloud and hope that does the trick?"

Brock had a horrible image of two little girls, half Samson and half Venture, made up like a pair of miniature Stepford wives in training, wandering about the compound with glassy-eyed expressions, offering the likes of General Manhowers vein-clogging party favours right out of the September 1968 issue of _House and Home._

"Maybe now isn't the time to discuss this," Brock offered lamely.


End file.
